The Black Widow is gone by the time he makes it to the appointed spot. No surprise. She’d given him a bare ten minutes to cover half the city, and he’s not Superman.

This is the third time she’s played this game, set him on a chase, led him on. She’s enjoying herself. But so is he.

He finds the cigarette balanced on the edge of a wrought-iron fence. It’s hers; by now he knows her shade of lipstick. He hasn’t smoked in years, but he takes a drag anyway, because it means putting his lips where hers have been.

A/N: Guys... I don't even know...